


sea of blue, forgetting you

by Lindsflea



Series: discord writing challenges! <3 [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Potions, Recovered Memories, dream is a crybaby LMAO, george can't remember for shit, the discs, tommy is a bitchboy, tubbo is so wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28800546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindsflea/pseuds/Lindsflea
Summary: PROMPT: someone is trapped alone in the middle of the sea and they have no way out. they don't remember anything from before they got there, they don't even know their own name.ORgeorge is deserted in the middle of the ocean with no possible way of escape. plunging under the dark waters and welcoming death with open arms, he instead finds himself amidst a band of friendly pirates.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: discord writing challenges! <3 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184813
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109





	sea of blue, forgetting you

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY HELLO i speedran this lmfao
> 
> this is apart of a writing competition for the writta's block discord server! (and i definitely went overboard)  
> prompt was created by Star #0008
> 
> reminder if the cc's ever express discomfort about fanfiction, this will be taken down. respect their boundaries!

Rushes of deep, blue waves glimmer against the skylight, and move towards the direction of the shoreline, which seems to be miles away, at a rapid pace. They threaten to submerge the poor brunet stranded in the middle of the ocean. With each wave crashing down, the man stranded in the ocean gets gradually weaker. His breathing is shifting to something more shaky and desperate, and his constant wading in the water slows to a dull thrum. 

He can't keep fighting the inevitable. The waves keep coming, each seeming more larger and boisterous than the previous, and they were deeming themselves close to insufferable. 

The man is scrawny and small, even for his age. He has thin legs and little to no muscle, and his delicate pale skin blisters and burns under the harsh blazes of the sun. His normally neat and combed brown hair is disheveled and soaked, writhing around rapidly from the strength of the wind. His chocolate-like eyes are clouded in the corners with incoming tears, and they’re red rimmed and sore from the massive intakes of salt water. His clothes are ripped and drenched, clinging to his skin like a lifeline, making everything  _ so  _ much more difficult and worse in his favor of surviving. 

The waves keep advancing in frantic bursts, and he keeps succumbing to them, albeit unwillingly. The nightmares of the sea continuously haunt him, and he can't just seem to wake up.

In a frantic attempt, he scours his mind for something,  _ anything _ that he can do in this situation. It definitely cannot be a flight or fight call, as there is no land anywhere the eye can see, and fighting the constant rushes of water has proved itself to be useless. 

His brain is fuzzy, from the constant adrenaline he isn’t used to or something else, he cannot tell. He desperately tries to dig through the blank slate, to uncover anything that could be of use to him. 

His mind drives to a blank. 

No, really.

White static, in place of what memories he used to, or should have. 

No reasoning of his whereabouts. No one to possibly come in contact with. Hell, not even his  _ name _ .

Nothing.

His shoulders start to feel heavy. Visions of black and white cloud his vision. The water roars in his ears, screaming at him to give up,  _ give in _ . His mouth is fully agape, sucking in desperate breaths of fresh air before he plunges under the sea, again and again and  _ again _ . The intake of air soon dissipates into something more blue and deadly. He engulfs it and chokes. 

Hopes of land, the promise of survival, seems so far away now; unable to grasp from the harsh reality of staying stranded and drowning. Death rushes over his head, firmly trapping him below the surface. 

He starts to feel lightheaded as his conscience slowly drifts away from the rest of his body. Whatever semblance of hope that may have shone inside the massive body of water is gone, or was it even there at all? 

The man closes his eyes and holds his breath for perhaps the final time as his limbs give out from the constant exercise they were put through and he sinks dangerously close to the bottom. 

It isn't until long before his lungs start burning for some sort of release. And it is only shortly after until the captive of the sea gives in, opening his mouth and allowing the saltwater to flow in and put out the fire.

However, the fire turns into something much  _ much  _ worse. His vision fills with black as more and more water enters his lungs, resulting in a plethora of dry coughs that only seem to make everything much worse.

His body has completely shut down at this point, arms and legs resting idly in the water at their mercy. Bubbles rise from his mouth and his head droops down to his chest and falls limp. His vision  _ bleeds _ and his lungs  _ sting  _ as he welcomes death with open arms.

And it isn't like he'll remember anything beforehand anyways.

~

Eyes fluttering open, heart steadily thumping in his chest, the man blinks once. Twice. Takes in his new surroundings and immediately is confused.

He always thought the afterlife was something ethereal: sung and proclaimed throughout Earth like a mantra, promises of good fortune and lavishing scenery echoing across the land.

He never thought an old, slightly molded barracks room with a lumpy bed and a desk missing one of its legs was what people were so  _ excited  _ about.

But, he assumes it'll have to suffice. You can't exactly be expecting sunshine and rainbows wherever you go. 

His hair and clothes are dry and clean, save for some stains of limp seaweed and other ocean-like things littering his pants. He feels refreshed, lively even. Breathing in a long gasp of fresh air, he is made blissfully aware of how much he missed that sort of luxury.

When he is suddenly made aware of his throbbing headache puncturing his skull, he scrunches his face up in annoyance and closes his eyes again, instead lavishing in the haphazard bedspread that was oh-so generously put out for him. At least people being exceedingly hospitable in the afterlife checks itself off the list.

Just as he settles back down, the room shifts. The bed he lays on and the shitty desk slide across the room, and he falls off of it with a pained " _ shit!"  _

Rushing water can be heard from a distance, and the man lets out an involuntary shudder. So much for escaping what caused him to end up here in the first place.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any stranger, the door behind him swings open and a wide eyed curious brunet eyes him down, and his face lights up when he sees the man on the floor.

"You're awake!" the boy exclaims, British accent prominent. The other furrows his brows, confused.

"Yeah?" he croaks out, and immediately flinches. That is  _ not _ how he expected his voice to sound like. Raspy and over -under? used, British accent doing no good to lace his syllables in a sweet undertone like it did for the other. 

The Brit standing by the door claps his hands together in content. "Perfect! Wilbur should want to see you in his quarters soon, if you're feeling well enough that is. You took quite the plunge there." 

The Brit with the croaky voice widens his eyes and incredulously asks, "I'm not dead?" 

The other giggles. "Of course not, silly. Our crew here saved you." 

_ Crew? _

"Where am I?" he questions. 

"S.S. L'manburg!" the boy proudly exclaims. "I'm Tubbo, the healer of the crew. We found you unconscious in the sea and decided to take you in." 

Suddenly, everything clicks into place. The haphazard room he woke up in, the shifting of the ship, the way it bobs up and down every so often because of the rough waters. His eyes widen in realisation.

"So I'm not dead," he mutters, perhaps to confirm to himself that is in fact true.

Tubbo shakes his head, smiling. "Nope!" 

"T-thank you," the other stutters out. He rests his hand on the bedsheets to pull himself up and leans on the frame for support. 

"It's no problem. Do you think you're in good enough condition to meet with Wilbur now?" 

"Wilbur?" he questions.

"Wilbur Soot, he brought us all together eons ago and we’ve been a tight-knit crew ever since! The captain of this here ship!" Tubbo says, gesturing around them and grinning again and  _ how does someone's grin get that wide _ ? 

"Yeah, sure," he responds and Tubbo walks over and takes his hand. The male allows himself to be pulled out the door and into the main deck of the ship. 

There were a few people scattered about the deck, but none of them paid any mind to the pair. One boy with blond hair was looking out to sea, spinning a colored music disc around one of his fingers and smirking almost triumphantly. Another pair was talking to each other animatedly on the side, one with peach blonde hair and another a rosy cheeked brunette.

The ship was relatively small from the deck, but it looked strong and healthy, its wooden frame showing little to no aging. There were multiple rooms similar to the one the pair left scattered about, and lively music was playing from a jukebox close to the blond. The sounds of the sea accompanied it quite well, almost like a duet.

"We're here!" Tubbo announces, and gestures to a room front and centre of the ship, perhaps the largest there was. The door is cracked open and one window visible, allowing them to see a brunet with a beanie at a desk, writing something down vigorously. 

The man smiles at Tubbo, still not being able to process that  _ I didn't drown and now I'm in the midst of a band of pirates. _

"Well, after you! I have to get back to work. Let me know if you need anything, okay?" 

The man nods, and so Tubbo knocks on the door, which cracks itself open more. Wilbur looks up quizzically at the two, then recognises them and smiles. Tubbo cheerily waves goodbye to them and stalks off, leaving Wilbur's semi-threatening gaze on the man who can't even remember his own birthday.

“Good afternoon,” Wilbur speaks, and  _ Jesus is everyone here British?  _ His voice is deep and warm, syllables laced with the tone of some otherworldly foreigner from England. It is also loud and nerve wracking, perhaps a reason why he was chosen captain. The man flashes Wilbur a nervous smile.

"Come in, come in," Wilbur beckons, and the other obliges. 

Wilbur’s lanky figure stays hunched over at his desk, looking up at the other with auburn eyes full of halfhearted mirth. He has a black beanie over his head, and some of his brunet locks swamp over his eyes rather gracefully, though he seems to pay no mind to them. He sports some red rimmed glasses and a large button up overcoat, which seems to make his figure even more threatening, considering he is the captain and all. 

“Take a seat,” he motions. The man with no name sits down almost clumsily in the chair in front of the desk, leaving the two face to face. He almost shudders when Wilbur glances at him. His façade really is one of confidence and blatant leadership. 

Wilbur glances back down at the piece of paper situated in the centre of his desk and continues writing, though he still somehow manages to keep up a conversation. “You took quite a plunge out there, didn’t you?” 

“I- yeah, I guess so.”

“Do you remember anything that happened prior to the event?”

Once again, he tries to explore the fragments of his mind to see if anything comes familiar to him. He clearly remembers blacking out and almost drowning, being stuck in the ocean for who knows how long, his body slowly shutting itself down and giving up, appearing in the ocean after-

His headache lashes a sharp pain throughout his entire skull, shoving a knife in his head and  _ twisting  _ it. He recoils into his chair and groans, shaking his head. 

His mind drew another blank, and his headache upgraded itself into a migraine.

“No,” he admits, defeated and looming through heavy amounts of self-depreciation. 

What is _wrong_ with him?

Wilbur looks unphased. “Do you remember basic information? Like, your name or place of birth?”

Once again, the poor man shakes his head. He plants his eyes firmly to the ground and glares at the woodwork. 

“Huh,” Wilbur mutters, seemingly lost in thought, “so nothing?”

“Nothing.” He confirms. It pains him.

“Well,” Wilbur starts, mindlessly shuffling papers and the like around his desk, “that’s no good. We have to call you something, don’t we?” 

“Yeah,” he lamely replies.

“Anything you can think of that you’d like to be called?” 

_ How can I want to be called something if I can’t remember jack shit?  _ He wants to say, but ideally decides against it. So instead, he says the first name that pops up in his empty brain.

“Clay.”

Wilbur tilts his head, and gives him a questioning glance. “Clay? Like the building material?”

“I- yeah, I guess. First thing I came up with.”  _ Clay  _ not so subtlety starts to curl in on himself, shame creeping in through his veins and embarrassment settling in his pores. Sinking and drowning under the ocean doesn’t seem too bad at the moment.

Wilbur pretends not to notice, bless his soul. “Huh, alright then. So,  _ Clay _ , would you like to get your memories back?”

Clay perks up at this, eyes widening and the ghost of a smile intruding on his face. “Yes. Of course! I would love that.” 

Clay would do anything at this rate to remember who he was and how the hell he got stranded in the middle of an ocean. Anything to remember his actual name, why he chose Clay almost out of habit, his friends and family, where he is from,  _ everything _ . To unwind and relax under the synopsis of he’s safe, happy, and  _ remembers. _

Wilbur links his hands together and rests his elbows on the table. It is a more relaxed position, but Clay still doesn’t feel very comfortable in his presence. He flashes a warm grin to the shorter Brit, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I,” he starts, cracking his knuckles and tilting his head to look Clay dead in the eye, “have a proposition for you.” 

Clay tries to act in a false sense of bravery towards Wilbur. Showing any resignation of fear could quite possibly lead to him being vulnerable and shooed away, and he does not want that. “And that would be?” 

Wilbur looks visibly pleased at his response. He lies back in his chair a little and files through his stacks of papers, humming. Clay waits in anticipation. 

“I want you,” he starts, then lifts up a sheet of paper and gives out a short  _ aha!, “ _ to join our crew. Temporarily, at least.” He passes over the paper, a proclamation written in barely legible handwriting, but still manageable to read in some parts. 

Clay picks it up and skims it over. It looks like a letter; it is addressed to Wilbur but the deliverer left anonymous. A few of the corners are creased and wearing down, yellow at the sides. He trails his eyes back up to the top, furrowing his brows and begins to read.

It’s choppy, some words blacked out and others scrawled out so quickly that they don’t even look like letters anymore. He manages to seek out a few parts.

_ ‘give them back’ _

_ ‘know what you did’ _

_ ‘time is running out’ _

_ ‘-S.S  _ _ D _ _ re _ _ am _ _ ’ _

“Huh,” he mutters, and places the letter back down on Wilbur’s desk. “Interesting.”

Wilbur nods, and pockets the missive inside of his desk, delicately folding it away. “Interesting indeed. Whoever wrote this must’ve been in a frenzy, I inquire.”

“How does this relate to the  _ proposition  _ you have for me? And joining your crew?” Clay questions.

Wilbur clicks his tongue. “You,” he points, and Clay involuntarily shrinks in his seat, “are a strong man, despite your, ahem,  _ scrawny  _ figure.” Clay deems it best to ignore the half-insult. 

“You survived for what, hours? Out in the middle of the ocean, until my crew found you. You were submerged underwater, it- it honestly seemed like you couldn’t survive, the damages were so deadly. But you did! And that is very admirable, may I add.”

“I would have been dead if you didn’t find me,” Clay counters. 

“Well, obviously. But it’s what led to before us finding you that I am commending.”

“Right.”

“So,” Wilbur starts, fidgeting around in excitement, “if you join our crew,  _ temporarily,  _ at the least, it can prove to be a huge asset and beneficiary to us in the future. And, Tubbo can help you retrieve your memories back; he can definitely whip up a few magnificent potions from time to time.” 

Clay lights up at that, but then falters, asking: “What’s the catch?”

Wilbur smirks. “Smart one you are.” He leans back in his chair a little, resting his hands on his lap and relaxes. “I’m sure you noticed how- inconspicuous the letter was. As if, per say, they’re planning an impending attack on S.S L’manburg?”

_ Ah.  _ “You want me to fight?”

“Precisely! You’re undoubtedly strong and definitely have some wits in that brain of yours, save for your memories.” Clay flinches. 

Throughout this conversation, Wilbur has been cleaning up his desk. In the beginning, it was astray with multiple papers and files littering the surface. Now, the majority of them are packed away in his drawer or filed away on the side. Clay figures the conversation is about to wrap up shortly, if that is what Wilbur’s mannerism is saying. 

“So, are you in?” Auburn eyes lock in on brown, and the world seems to still as Clay considers his options.

Pros: join a pretty awesome pirate crew and have a chance of getting his memories back.

Cons: possibly fighting another band of pirates and risking fatal injury.

A sane man would choose to back out and not take the risk of getting hurt or perhaps even worse. He would ask to be taken to the nearest city and take up a new life, residing in with the common folk and forgetting all together about this strange endeavor. 

But Clay is no sane man.

He hurls the last morsels of his sanity out into the ocean for it to drown like he almost did, and inhales. “I’m in.”

~

The weeks pass by relatively quickly after Clay joins the L’manburg crew. The room he originally woke up in was Tubbo’s medic quarters, so he gets his own room adjacent to Tubbo’s personal one. 

Being introduced to the crew and learning more and more about them each day proved to surprise Clay each time. They were all so lively and boisterous and  _ unique  _ he had some trouble keeping up with each of them. 

He learns that Wilbur can be very chaotic at times, his confident and intelligent captain façade dissolving and morphing into something much more leisure and friendly. He takes up guitar as a pastime, and is actually super talented at it. Clay has to admit his favorite nights on the ship consist of Wilbur singing to him and the rest of his crew on the deck. 

Tubbo, as quiet and reserved as he is, proves himself to be a talented healer. The headache Clay had woken up with went away in a matter of minutes after Tubbo overheard him complaining about it, and if it wasn’t for Tubbo’s spectacular healing specialties Clay would have drowned oh so many days ago. He’s been giving Clay questionable colored potions over the course of his time here, though the interesting color choice could be blamed on Clay’s colorblindness. 

“For your memories,” Tubbo would always say, and Clay did nothing less than trusted him. 

Admittedly, he hasn’t felt any different since the start of the consumption of the concoctions, but Tubbo assures him that it’ll come to him “at just the right time.” Clay sometimes wonders if there’s more than what’s at the surface when it comes to the talents of the introverted healer. 

Tommy, on the other hand, is the polar opposite of his best friend Tubbo. Rowdy and easily enraged, he playfully picks fights with the other crew members and gets in trouble more often than not with Wilbur. Despite his open personality, however, there is something he’s kept secret from the rest of the crew that Clay has noticed once or twice.

The man he noticed flinging a disc around his finger when he first appeared on the ship? That was Tommy. 

He noticed him with more discs a few days after, and had asked him about it. The response he received was nothing he had ever expected.

“Keep to your own business, will ya?” he had sneered, teeth baring at Clay and discs firmly hidden behind his back. 

“I was just-” 

Tommy interrupted him and  _ growled _ . “I said drop it. It is none of your concern, pretty boy.”

Clay slumped his shoulders and recoiled, visibly threatened by the teen’s sudden lashing out. “Right. Of course. My apologies.” 

Tommy glared daggers into his forehead and responded with a curt, “That’s just perfect, innit?”

Despite that awkward encounter with the ship’s navigator, the other people he met have been terribly kind to him. Niki, with her reciting of German poetry late at night. Puffy, with her talk of all the pets she used to own before she resigned as a caretaker and joined the crew. Fundy, who taught him to use a telescope and name all the constellations visible in the night sky. And Quackity, who taught him to sword fight and easily became one of his closest friends on the ship.

Now here he lies, stargazing with Fundy and Quackity, relishing in his newfound friendships and position as a member of their crew. They had all accepted him with open arms and he never felt more content in his life, although he doesn’t remember any of his life before this. 

“This is nice,” he mumbles, and his companions hum affirmations of agreement. Quackity is sitting with his legs crossed on his left side, peering his head up just so to memorise the multitude of constellations dotted across the sky. Fundy lies next to him on his right, looking half asleep. His eyes are closed shut and his chest rises and falls calmly, echoing the waves of the sea. 

“I’m so glad you decided to stay with us, Clay,” Quackity eventually responds. Fundy lets out another hum of agreement. 

“I am too,” Clay decides. Whether it was to reassure his friends or the constant nagging of  _ something  _ in his brain, he wasn’t sure. 

What he was sure of, however, was his friends cared about him as he did the same. Stretching his arms behind his back and reaching out to clasp them together, he allows his eyes to flutter closed and exhales a breath of relief. 

Out here, in the midst of the night, watching the stars flicker their way across the sky and shimmying down on them like a spotlight, it is nice. With two of his friends on either side of him, relishing in the comfortable silence they had created, it is pleasant. Knowing he has an entire crew on his side that would die for him in a heartbeat and him returning the favor, it is gratifying. 

Feeling as if this is the first time he’s ever not felt truly alone, at peace, he settles that into his bones and lets it relax against his body, letting his mindscape settle into the tranquil feeling of  _ this is home, I am home _ .

“I am too,” he repeats, if only to satisfy the stars in the sky and the pulse in his heart.

~

Clay slumps down in the scratchy sheets of the med’s den, rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension from the day’s sword training. Tubbo stands off to the side, sorting some things out on the desk. They look to be various medicines and potions. Tubbo grabs one off the surface, reads its label, and hums in approval.

He stalks back over to where Clay sits and tears off the cap. The potion opens with a delicate  _ plop  _ and some of the substance flies out and stains the sheets in a yellow-  _ green? _ color. Clay flinches.

Tubbo sends him a soft smile of reassurance and pours a bit of the potion in a plastic cup. He hands it over to Clay, who sniffs it and grimaces. 

“Putrid, isn’t it?” Tubbo asks. Clay laughs and nods.

“Don’t worry, I think it’ll help with your memories. Drink up.”

Clay obliges and drinks the entire contaminants of the cup, leaving no reminisce. Despite its terrible smell, it doesn’t taste half bad. He subconsciously licks his lips and hands the cup back to Tubbo, who takes it and sets it back on the desk.

Nothing new, honestly. He feels a little lightheaded after consuming the concoction, but that’s normal. It burns like acid in the back of his throat as a terrible aftertaste, but it soons resides away and empties itself into the cave of his stomach(which really should be strong as iron at this point, from the terrible pirate food and the dozens of potions he’s had).

“How ya feelin’?” Tubbo asks, watching Clay with a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

“Alright, I guess. The same effects.” Tubbo nods and relaxes a little.

“Okay. This is a newer concoction, so I was just a lil’ worried for a sec- no problem!” 

Well,  _ that  _ wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. 

“Do you think it’ll help?” Clay asks. Tubbo shrugs, as innocent as ever.

“I sure hope so. If not I’ll have to come up with something else, this is my last potion that could have a chance at helping. You remember anything at all?”

Clay shakes his head. “Nope. Besides normal human bodily functions, I’m at a standstill.”

Tubbo tries to hide his disappointment, but Clay easily catches it. He makes a timid attempt to encourage his friend. “Hey, it’s not your fault. You’ve never dealt with something like this before.”

Tubbo turns back to face him, face morphed into a bittersweet frown. Clay deems right then and there he hates to see any sort of sour face on the kind-hearted teen. He sighs, and opens his mouth to speak. “I know, but-” 

A crash outside of the room interrupts Tubbo’s sentence. Clay unsheathes his sword from its satchel and Tubbo grabs a pocket knife from the desk, both moves they made on impact. They spare a glance at each other. Clay gives him a nod of affirmation, Tubbo replies with a shaky smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and they exit the room together. 

The scene put in front of them on the outside deck sure is a sight to see. Their own crewmembers paired up with strangers in hostile fighting stances. Wilbur is towering over a lanky boy with dirty blond hair and a multicolored vest, knife to his throat. Niki and Puffy are dueling against two men, axes drawn and at the ready. Fundy is shooting at a ship that appeared in the distance, with Quackity protecting him from another incoming enemy. Tommy is nowhere to be seen. 

Clay directs his attention over to the enemy ship. It is large, larger than S.S. L’manburg, and is painted in a murky yellow color which is more than likely green. It has its cannons at the ready and a few other members of it with crossbows out, aiming at the L’manburg crewmembers. 

_ S.S. Dream,  _ the ship name reads.

Another ear-piercing migraine makes its way through Clay’s head and leaves him involuntarily shuddering towards the scene in front of him. He grimaces and closes his eyes, lamely rubbing his temples to resolve some sort of the pain. 

_ Warnings of an impending storm - a gnarly one. He doesn’t listen. _

_ Water, so much water, clouding his vision. He’s overboard.  _

_ Hands, reaching out for him. Too far.  _

_ A being, grabbing his drenched figure and pulling him under. _

_ A calling of a name, his name? _

_ “George!” _

Eyes shooting open, hands no longer massaging his skull, the headache is gone. Clay glances over to Tubbo, whose eyes are set out at the fighting in front of them, glazed over in concern and worry. Clay decides now is not the best time to figure out whatever  _ that  _ was. 

“C’mon, Tubbo.” He pulls the medic’s sleeve and he snaps his head over so fast that Clay was sure he experienced whiplash. Sobering up a little, he nods. 

“For L’manburg!” Clay howls, laughing with the wind. 

“For L’manburg,” Tubbo echoes, and they set off into the fighting together. 

Clay comes face to face with a small figure, clothed in dark robes and wielding a flimsy axe. The enemy raises his axe to attack, but Clay easily counters it with his own sword, resulting in the other to stumble backwards. Clay takes his chance and lurches the tip of his sword over to the neck of the S.S. Dream member. He falters and stumbles over, and Clay easily rests the tip of his gleaming silver weapon against the neck of the man. It was easy. Almost  _ too  _ easy.

Something flashes through the other’s eyes, and they widen to the size of saucers. His breathing comes in ragged impulses and he struggles with his hood, eventually pulling it down and revealing a mass of light brown hair and black rimmed glasses settling on his face. 

“George!” the stranger exclaims, and Clay didn’t think he stunned him  _ that  _ hard to mistake his identity with someone else. 

Clay tilts his head, confused. Why isn’t the man fearing-pleading for his life? Why does he seem so visibly  _ excited  _ that Clay is looming over him, able to take his life away in a swish movement of his sword and puncture his neck? Who the  _ fuck  _ is George?

“George,” the stranger repeats, sounding out of breath, “please let me go George.”

“I know  _ no  _ George,” Clay sneers, and moves his sword closer to the vein visible on the man’s neck. He gulps, perhaps now aware of the situation he got himself into. 

“You, I-  _ we _ !” the man tries, but Clay merely rolls his eyes and glares serpents into his figure, ready to choke and poison the man at his command.

_ Just kill him already _ , he internally vacillates with himself,  _ he’s clearly insane. _

Clay shakes his head and focuses back on the defeated man in front of him, ready to strike. 

His head throbs yet again. He wavers and  _ remembers _ .

_ A man, the same black rimmed glasses.  _

_ Diving in after him, to no avail. _

_ Washed up, gone. _

Eyes shooting open, he glances back down at the man. They were the same glasses he recalls seeing in his vision, the same wide eyes glimmering up at him with the same fear and rush of adrenaline he also saw. 

_ I know you. _

He delicately lifts his sword off the poor man’s neck and brings it to his side, stabbing a plank in the ground. His head feels dizzy, and he leans on the handle of the sword for stablance. Meanwhile, the man on the ground regains his breath and props himself up, looking up at Clay with an honest appreciation and giddiness in his eyes. 

“George?” he asks, still seeming unsure. 

“A vision-” Clay stumbles over his words, “you- me? Water, lots of it.” He looks down at his free hand not leaning on the sword and  _ glares  _ at it. “Why can’t I remember, damnit!”

“George-” the male walks over to him, holding his hands out in a semblance of surrender and peace, and gives him a warm smile. Maybe he could just talk to this man, remember something,  _ anything  _ else. 

That promise is short lived when Tommy comes out of nowhere and stabs the man squarely in his side. 

He gasps and collapses on the ground, writhing around in pain. The wound is fatal, blood pooling out of it in massive amounts and painting the wood in a dark maroon.

Tommy grins down evilly at the man. “That’s what you get for intruding on our ship, bitchboy!” 

“L-language,” the man croaks out. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he fights for air and his  _ life _ . Tears start to pool in the corner of Clay’s eyes.

This was someone in his life before he forgot everything. He can barely even scrape the surface of who they were, and now they’re dying in front of his eyes. 

Tommy glances at him, visibly confused at Clay’s raw emotion.

Before he can even open his mouth to say anything, Tommy gets attacked from behind. 

Clay glances at the attacker and stills.

He looks  _ devious _ , to say the least. Taller than Tommy, blood stained clothes and hair writhing wildly around in a giant mass behind his head. Any facial features are largely obscured by a giant and threateningly terrifying white mask with a comical drawn smiley face on it. Despite his rather horrendous accessory, he is quick with his blade and sharp with his mind, pinning Tommy to the ground and forcefully trapping him in a matter of seconds, adjacent to the dying man still begging for pitiful mercy on the floor.

“Give them back, Tommy!” the man screams into his ear. Tommy keeps his resting bitchface on and glowers at his assailant. 

“No chance,  _ Dream _ ,” he sneers, slowly and subtly raising his own sword to counter against Dream’s. 

“I said,” Dream grunts, raising his sword to the sky, glimmering in the sunlight, “give,” a realisation across Tommy’s face, realising he is  _ too late _ , “them,” Dream grinning down wildly at the poor boy, more than ready for what he is about to do, “back!” 

Sword on sword, but not Tommy and Dream’s.

Clay rushes in at the last second, pushes Tommy out of the way and  _ counters _ . Steel thrashes around wildly against each other, panting breaths signifying just how tired each of them are, Tommy wiggling his way out from under Clay and scampering away, discs in back pocket. 

Clay bares his teeth at Dream and strikes his sword over and over. Dream’s mask remains emotionless and stoic, gaze locked on Clay’s sword and stance at the ready.

But the second he glances up at Clay’s face, time seems to freeze. 

Dream drops his sword, and it rattles on the ground, reverberating. Clay stops fighting too, surprised at the dastardly and merciless man's sudden reaction. He keeps his gaze locked on the dropped sword however, still  _ very  _ untrustworthy of Dream’s motives.

But that filter of hesitance seems to dissipate the second a  _ sob  _ racks its way through Dream’s body, leaving his hands shaking and shoulders drooping as he cowers on the floor beneath Clay, and all he can think is  _ what the fuck? _

“George,” Dream croaks out and  _ why does everyone keep calling him that? _

Clay glances around. Everyone is still fighting, save for the pair, Tommy disappearing somewhere once again, and the now unmoving man on the ground beside them.

Maybe, just maybe, if he can induce the headache this time, he will finally remember. Dream does not seem to turn on him anytime soon, and everyone else is definitely occupied right about now. 

He glances down at Dream. Wet stains of tears are pooling on the deck, and he’s on his hands and knees. Clay is dumbfounded. They were fighting mere seconds ago, and now this guy is completely at his mercy and for  _ what? _

Something in his heart flutters as Dream lets out another painful sob and a sullen murmuring of “you’re here, you’re alive-” 

_ Dream. _

Pain flashes through his body in short bursts. Eyes clamp desperately shut, and he  _ remembers. _

***

“George Found, at your service sir!” he giddily salutes to the masked figure in front of him. At the ripe age of eighteen, George has been looking to join a band of pirates ever since he was old enough to leave his boring home in the outskirts of Brighton. 

The masked figure chuckles and ruffles the shorter’s hair. “George, is it? I’m Dream. Welcome aboard.” 

He leads him on a lively ship smelling of cheap booze and the ocean, and George distantly thinks  _ this is home. _

~

Lively parties, excruciating attacks, and tiring voyages. It is what George has always dreamed of and  _ more _ . 

~

Months soon trickle into years. Crewmates turn into best friends, family.

Dream soon turns into Clay, his lover.

~

“Promise me,” Clay murmurs into his hair, on a cold dark night where the pair is tucked in bed, “that whatever happens, it’ll be us against the world.”

“Us against the world,” George repeats, toned laced with fondness, “that’s a little preposterous, don’t you think?” 

Clay chuckles, and George practically beams. “With you by my side, I feel as if I can do anything.”

George smiles into the crook of his neck. His breathing rhythmically slows until he is on the brink of unconsciousness. “Us against the world it is, then.”

~

Dream is  _ angry. _

George has never seen him this enraged before, rapidly pacing his ship and lashing out at anyone who tries to speak to him.

Except for George.

“That  _ bastard _ ,” he seethes, a volcano of emotions, “Tommy  _ fucking  _ innit! Stole the discs. The fucking  _ discs,  _ George! The  _ one  _ thing that I told him  _ not  _ to steal, and he goes and fucking does it!”

George rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dream leans into it.

“Calm down now,” he mutters, “save your energy, love.”

Dream sighs and agrees. He can never say no to George.

“I’m sending Wilbur a letter.  _ He  _ can explain Tommy’s actions. And if he doesn’t bring the discs back I swear I’ll-”

George kisses him quiet, so he won’t overwork himself with his emotions. Dream happily kisses back, and they relish in the sweet affection a while longer.

A battle is inevitable, as far as Dream is concerned.

~

The night it happens. A terrible,  _ terrible _ storm approaches the S.S. Dream, promising impending doom and destruction. 

George is ushered into the barracks by Sapnap and Bad. Dream is still out there, vulnerable.

He escapes to go find him.

_ Us against the world, I’m not leaving you out in this storm. _

The boat tilts back and forth, the wet pavement sliding underneath George’s feet. It leaves him  _ tumbling, falling… _

Bad tries to save him. The effort proves to be fruitless.

Cries of his name echo throughout the night as he is rushed into the deep blue depths of the sea by  _ something _ .

George could never figure out exactly what before he passes out and is left under the influence of the being that dragged him under.

***

“Holy shit,” Clay-  _ George?  _ mutters breathlessly once his eyes shoot back open.

Everything came back all at once, so much, almost  _ too  _ much, and George feels absolutely ecstatic. 

He crouches down beside Dream-  _ Clay? Huh. That’s where he got the name from-  _ and taps his shoulder. Dream almost subconsciously leans into the touch and breathes out a heavy sigh of relief. 

“I’ll fix this,” he says, “I remember everything.”

Whether Dream understands what he means or not he doesn’t say, but lets George go, gaze watching him under the mask.

Honestly, it all happens in a flash. George hollers at everyone to stop fighting and they easily do, as if all of them were reluctant to even be attacking each other in the first place. Tubbo rushes to his side and gives him a look which reads confused yet hopeful.

“My memories,” George rushes, “they’re back.” 

Tubbo lets out a whoop of triumph and engulfs George in a hug, which he happily reciprocates.

As they pull apart, George is easily able to figure out everyone else’s whereabouts. Wilbur lets his grasp go on the multicolored vest man,  _ Karl _ , who rushes over to the men Niki and Puffy were previously fighting,  _ Sapnap and Callahan, holy shit they’re all here- _

The hooded male,  _ Bad,  _ George realises, is unresponsive on the deck floor still.

Slowly but surely, the two groups direct their attention to George and Tubbo, albeit still keeping a safe distance between the opposing sides. 

“S.S. L’manburg,” George starts, and  _ holy shit  _ how is he supposed to go about explaining this?

“I- I guess I should properly introduce myself, yeah? My  _ real  _ name is George Found, and I’m- hah, a 24-year-old male originally from Brighton and a member of the S.S. Dream crew.”

Gasps ensue and echo around the ship. Surely no one was expecting that. Tubbo remains planted by George’s side, eyes wide and sparkling.

“And this,” he gestures to the array of people around him, the blood splatters on the ground, the sweat beading and dripping down each of their faces, eyes wide eyed and ready for more destruction, more  _ pain _ , “is useless.”

George turns to Tubbo, almost as if he’s asking for permission. Tubbo, unaware of what George is planning but trusting him all the same, nods.

“Tommy,” George bellows, and he sees Tubbo flinch visibly beside him, “the discs.”

“You  _ bitch _ ,” he hears from the crowd, and Tommy’s mass of blond hair perks up until he’s suddenly  _ right in front of him _ , up close and personal, “I should have known you would choose their side.”

“I’m not choosing a  _ side _ ,” George rebukes, “I’m trying to resolve this mess of a battle, is all.” 

“Oh, so you suddenly get all your memories back and choose to be the hero of this story? Not gonna happen,  _ George _ .”

“Let him speak, Tommy,” Wilbur butts in, and George has never felt more relieved in his life. Having the approval of L’manburg’s captain, of Tommy’s  _ brother _ , is something he would have been afraid to ask for. “He’s been with both of the ships, he knows what he’s doing.”

“But- Wilbur, you can’t- he’s-,  _ fuck _ .” Tommy drops his head in defeat. His grip on the discs in his right hand tightens, until his knuckles are a paper white. 

“The discs,” George continues, silently thankful for Wilbur giving him some newfound confidence, “were originally in the possession of S.S. Dream. We found them three- four years ago? It’s been a while. If I had to guess, they’re of great value, if not the most valuable thing our crew has- well had.

“My memories are still a bit fuzzy, but I remember the night they disappeared. It was after we docked at a nearby city for extra resources, and by the time we came back to the ship they were gone. We- hah, went ballistic to say the least.”

“How do you  _ know _ all this?” Wilbur prompts, clearly not as trustworthy as George thought. He gulps. “Sure, you were originally a member of the crew, but no  _ normal  _ crewmember would know this much information about a ship’s most prized possessions.” 

“I- aha, I remember being relatively close with the captain of the ship.” George leaves it at that, nothing more, nothing less. Let them conspire all they want, he remembers their relationship being relatively secret, and he isn’t about to out the two of them directly after a bloodshed.

“Are you  _ still  _ close with Dream?” George nods. Tubbo, still beside him, seems nervous out of his mind. George turns and sends his friend a reassuring smile.

“This is-” Wilbur laughs a little, and it sounds like he may just be losing his mind, “this is a lot.” He grabs Tommy by the sleeve and pulls him into his barracks. Before he closes the door behind him, he peeks out. “We’ll be just a minute. Quackity, Puffy. Make sure nothing  _ deadly  _ happens.”

As the pair leave the outside deck, everyone seems to exhale simultaneously. Tubbo and George lead themselves back into the midst of the crowd. Quackity and Puffy take guard of either side of the ship, watching the intruders with mild interest and eyes sharp as ever. Karl and Sapnap cower over Bad’s corpse, and Tubbo rushes to aid them. Fundy sends George a kind smile and continues watching the night’s events unfold. The two stragglers remaining on the S.S. Dream stop their firing and distantly talk to each other in the dead of the night. Dream looks over at George and tilts his head, silently beckoning him to come over. George obliges.

“Hey,” George greets.

“Hey,” Dream replies, just as breathlessly George had been minutes before. 

Dream clears his throat and speaks again. “You- we, can we talk?” George nods.

Dream takes his hand and leads him over to the farthest corner of the ship, away from everyone else.

Once they’re out of view, Dream removes his mask. His eyes are tear stained and red-rimmed, hair mussed up and tangled, freckles dotting his face every which way and the ghost of a lovestruck grin on his face. He is beautiful.

“I thought I lost you,” Dream admits, and George’s heart stutters.

_ Rushing water, cries for help. _

_ He is gone, gone gone, at mercy to the sea and what it beholds. _

“I thought I lost myself.” 

Dream wraps his arms around George’s waist and pulls him closer. One hand finds its way into his hair, threading through the locks and gripping almost desperately. George rests one hand on the small of his back and the other a little above, and sobs into his lover’s shoulder. 

“It’s been too long,” Dream mutters.

_ Pools of black in his vision. _

_ Screams of bloody murder from the ones he loves. _

“It has,” George agrees, and relishes in the comfort and warmth of Dream for just a moment longer.

Weeks of not knowing who he even was, starting an entire new life with an entirely new crew; working with the enemy. If not for the thievery of the discs he may have never seen Dream and the others again.

“We will get through this, that is a promise.” Dream hums.

“Us against the world?” 

George simultaneously laughs and sobs into his shoulder.

“Us against the world,” he confirms. 

With his memories back, with Dream by his side, it doesn’t feel very preposterous anymore, them against the world.

He risks a glance over at the deck and smiles warmly. It seemed ridiculous at the time, asking for the crew members to stop fighting and wait, just  _ wait  _ for the verdict Wilbur comes up with the discs. But now as he glances over and sees a few working together to clean up the mess on S.S. L’manburg, Tubbo helping Sapnap out with Bad’s body, Karl and Quackity passively talking to each other, the two ships he’s grown to love as his family, it doesn’t seem too absurd anymore.

George buries his head further in Dream’s shoulder and sighs in content. Dream chuckles fondly.

A gentle realisation trickles in, passes throughout his veins and settles in the well-rounded edges of his heart. George welcomes it with open arms.

The realisation that whether things turn awry at the end of this and disputes return, whether the two ships can live in harmony amidst each other. Whether they have a thousand allies by their side at the end of this, whether Tommy refuses to give up the discs and war breaks out, one thing is for sure.

George finally  _ finally  _ remembers. 

~

𝙛𝙞𝙣

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> WOOOO that was a wild ride!
> 
> genuinely proud of this au  
> ending is up for debate! not sure if i'll be continuing this quite yet
> 
> comments & kudos are always appreciated!  
> thank you guys for all the support on my other fics! be sure to check them out if you liked this <3
> 
> writta's block discord server: https://discord.gg/XJQmUCWwvw  
> also my twitter is Lindsflea if any of you want to follow :]


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